Synesthesia
by Ennui Enigma
Summary: Aspects of Sherlock suggest autistic savant. This short story explores Sherlock's inner consciousness. Can John break through the wall? What do you think? Is he a sociopath, savant, psychopath, other?


_Author's note: The following is a literary exploration of Sherlock, were he to be diagnosed as an autistic savant. Many of the ideas expressed come from my research on the extraordinary savant and writer, Daniel Tammet. Your thoughts, reviews, critiques appreciated!  
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_Disclaimer: I own nothing related to BBC Sherlock and get no financial benefits.  
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"Asperger's," John quips to Lestrade as they exit the village pub and Sherlock, dressed in his invariable, black coat and blue scarf wrapped round the neck, flounces ahead, uninterested in the rest of world as he concentrates on the mystery at hand.

"I am not a psychopath, I'm a high functioning sociopath…" Sherlock yells at Anderson. But Anderson is not the only one he regularly insults without a shred of remorse.

"You're an idiot! Don't mind that, practically everyone is," Sherlock tells John early in their relationship. Further verbal criticisms are freely dished out without apparent worry that he might hurt John's feelings.

"It's complicated," Mycroft replies stiffly when asked about his relationship with his younger brother.

Sherlock is alone tonight. The soft patter of rain pelts against the window, as rivulets of water cascade down like the tears that he has never been able to shed. People say he doesn't care. They caustically remark that he doesn't have emotions. Only one man, his enemy, a twisted genius who rivals his own intelligence, knows differently. "We both know that isn't quite true," he replies, when Sherlock says he's been told that he doesn't have a heart.

His long, thin fingers hold the violin with a familiar tenderness. His pale eyes that some proclaim to be icy cold, gaze abstractly out the window at the kaleidoscope of patterns from passing cars and people below. He coaxes a tune from his instrument that speaks of longing and desire clearer than any words. His eyelids close as he absorbs the melancholic notes - colorful, textured images that float and swirl through the air in his mind. People don't understand him. He has emotions even if he'd rather block them out and deny their existence. He experiences joy, sorrow, envy, fear, hope, despair, and even love. They're intense, frightening. He doesn't know how to manage these feelings or appropriately express them. It is easier to cover them up and pretend he's a cold, calculating machine.

As a child, Sherlock's emotional management problems caused him to bang his head against the walls. His insatiable cries and screams used to drive his parents to their wits end. Gradually he learned to calm himself with details. The number of cheerios in his breakfast bowl, the faint smear of chocolate on his brothers lip when he'd stolen a piece of cake from the pantry, the strand of strange hair on his father's jacket on nights when he came home very late; focusing on the minutiae eased his discomfort in a world where he was a misfit.

From misfit to 'freak', he had been teased all his life. His scrawny, adolescent physique had made him clumsy and lousy in athletics. He never was very coordinated with gangly limbs that refused to operate in a coordinated fashion without conscious effort. He remembered training himself to walk without looking down or becoming too absorbed in his own mind that he'd lose track of his legs, causing many a scraped, bleeding knee.

Problems without solutions gave Sherlock an uncomfortable, queasy feeling. Something innate, unexplainable drove him to examine every piece and solve the puzzle. Maybe it was because this allowed him to retain a sense of control. He always had to do things his own way, in his own time. It made him seem rigid and inflexible to others.

John often got annoyed because Sherlock neglected to pick up the milk from the grocers. He really didn't forget the milk, but it was easier to lie than explain the nightmare of a compulsion to analyze details of every store item. The mental effort to suppress it was exhausting. He wished he could switch off his computer brain and just choose a pint of milk from the refrigerated section like other people.

The cascading colors and textures floating from his violin slowly fade as he reverently lays aside his instrument. Hands in the pockets of his silk robe, blue eyes, now soft, peering into the distance at scenes visible only by him, Sherlock wraps himself up in wisps of shimmering silence. The silence is a balm to the wounds of his soul gouged by those unwilling to look beyond his shell of indifference. Is it any wonder that he covets the stillness of night and sleeps so little?

Sherlock's mind is brilliant, but untamed, sometimes dangerous. Without the distractions of deduction, acute uneasiness builds like the lava in a volcano before erupting. Solving crimes comes from the details of his keen observation. These details form solutions on their own, without his consciousness. They swirl and melt, then meld together to show him the answer. His genius is both an extraordinary talent and vulnerability.

Sherlock's thin body curls up and sinks into the armchair. With a weary, heavy-lidded expression masking his keen intellect, he awaits John's return. He needs John. He cannot express this inexpressible fact to John though. His life would erode into meaningless rituals and obsessions without him. His relationship with John keeps the fragility of his genius from imploding under the constant barrage of data. The delicate tendrils of his inner consciousness have finally begun to cautiously unfurl under the warm rays of John's unending love. To all others, he remains SHERlocked.


End file.
